


We Regret To Inform You

by Iambic



Category: Nimona (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 05:42:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2337281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iambic/pseuds/Iambic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ballister attempts to adjust to his new life of crime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Regret To Inform You

**Author's Note:**

> With bottomless thanks to you dedicated 6-7 writers who came before, and apologies for the million liberties I took in regards to detail work. But come on. Like they would have let a guy named Blackheart try for champion of the realm.

The Institution had one thing going for its HR department, which is all Ballister would give them -- they sent very tasteful cards. _Best Wishes For Your Swift Recovery_ featured an artfully drooping fennel plant, not a fallen leaf or bandage in sight. It also preceded the other letter he received, which began with _We Regret To Inform You_ and didn't even have any fancy typography, and came straight from the top.

Apparently the Institution also regretted to inform the hospital staff, because one day it was attentive care and his own room, and the next he was sharing both his room and doctor with three other people at once and no one seemed to care that the new pain meds they had him on barely made a dent. That was without the phantom limb pain, which he'd read about but might have appreciated being told it would apply to him before lucidity took him fully in her cruel grasp. By the time he was discharged he had a permanent headache from clenching his jaw, but he still hadn't gotten past the humiliated (and humiliating) tears every time he tried to use the right arm that until recently he had relied upon very heavily.

Ballister kept the card, maybe as some kind of bad joke, and it sat on the metal shelving unit turned work bench that he'd hauled into the room with the best lighting in his new digs. The skeleton hand that would eventually become his arm replacement points toward it, middle finger helpfully raised in the most useless symbol in the whole uselessly symbolic Evil Lair that he'd apparently inherited.

 _We Regret To Inform You_ had also informed him that the kingdom was conveniently in need of a villain, since the perhaps too timely demise of its previous scourge, and with his disfigurement and the scandal resulting the public was sure to support him in his new role. It was insulting, it was humiliating, but he'd done insulting and humiliating things before on the way to becoming a knight champion. Maybe the Institution was, clumsily and unsuccessfully, attempting to provide for his future.

What he had regretfully not been informed was that the public's "support" came by way of doors slammed in his face and angry crowds chasing him out of town. Through their shouted reactions he gleaned the story they knew: that there had been an explosion, that no one had expected Ballister to want to win that badly, that Ambrosius Goldenloin would have to earnestly fight his best friend, oh, the tragedy of betrayal!

Ballister hadn't really been attached to the kinder, gentler Institution he'd dubiously imagined, but Ambrosius' alleged heroics left a sour taste in his mouth and a twist in his stomach. Sir Goldenloin, Knight Champion, did not even send a card. But then again, he’d felt that shot to his back before he lost consciousness -- he remembered, to the Institution’s potential dismay, the blow that had knocked him back and rid him of his arm and, _we regret to inform you_ , his future.

There really wasn’t any reason to expect a card. But, like the fool he’d been before, he’d still hoped for one.

Villains didn’t _do_ heartbreak, though, or so he’d always gathered, so he’d had a few drinks too many one night and left it all there. He didn’t need that kind of weakness or distraction. He built a mechanical arm instead, which would only betray him if he did a subpar job maintaining or repairing, and then he could safely blame himself without any kind of residual hurt. And if he didn’t keep the hurt bottled up quite well enough, well, no one had to know.

He certainly had no hopes of convincing anyone important to recognise how he’d been wronged, and his dead of night trip into the printing press of the realm’s most prominent newspaper had only been to -- to confuse the Institution, of course, who had been expecting him to destroy or steal something as his initial act of villainy. They’d be in for a shock when they read the paper next morning. They’d never have expected an act of opposition so subtle. They’d have no idea what to do with Ambrosius -- Sir Goldenloin, rather -- with this assault. Dress him up as a detective, maybe. Send him out to buy every newspaper. Or to sell replacements, in a tweed newsboy cap and suspenders or something ridiculous like that.

Or, as it happened, send him in full armour with a full complement of backup guards hovering just out reach, presumably in case -- perish the thought -- Ballister were to _cheat_.

"They told me it was you," said Ambrosius, chest puffed out with bravado. "I had hoped they were mistaken."

“Seems unlikely, since they were the ones who told me to become a villain in the first place.” Ballister did not deign to _whine_ but he did grumble, a little, and he didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, molten brown or otherwise.

Ballister had, however, forgotten to bring any kind of seriously dangerous weapon. The idea had been to cause nothing more than a few light concussions, since villainy and harm to the innocent workforce were two very different animals, but what took care of a few unprepared security guards did not offer much resistance to a squadron of very well trained warriors led by the closest thing to an equal Ballister had ever had on the practice grounds.

(Or, a man he had been under the impression was his equal, but then, if that had been the case, would he have needed to rig the match?)

Sir Goldenloin, Champion of the Realm, had the sword and shield specially forged for his hands alone, and Ballister had brought a club to a sword fight like some kind of idiot, or rather, one mechanical arm still not quite configured for fine motor control. He might be able to block a sword, or at least one stroke, but it probably didn’t have to force to break through a steel shield. Not yet, anyway.

The champion of the realm was speaking again. “I remember you as a better man than to blame your own failures on innocent parties,” Goldenloin proclaimed, and Ballister considered knocking himself out instead and saving himself the trouble of this whole encounter. He probably had drywall dust in his hair, too, and he hadn’t dressed to impress exactly, and there was Ambrosius -- Goldenloin -- in his new Champion’s finery. No one had offered Ballister any kind of fancy villain’s costume. Some investment.

He held out his metal arm anyway, as some kind of answering threat. No one actually had to know it was still a very early prototype. “You don’t really have any leg to stand on,” he said, and it was sort of a joke, but it could have been a threat, maybe, and Goldenloin backed up warily anyway.

He brought the sword down, too, and it turned out the metal arm could block a sword, but Ballister’s nerves all buzzed and the phantom pain escalated to the point where he couldn’t move the replacement. He swung it awkwardly into the path of Ambrosius’ next swing and ducked underneath, sticking a foot out as a last minute trap. It worked -- _Goldenloin _started to fall forward and while he recovered Ballister pulled back, out of the way. The exits were all blocked, of course, and he hadn’t come prepared to blow anything up for a quick getaway. Which was a pretty poor plan, he’d have to think of that next time. Villainry had a steep learning curve.__

__“You’ve nowhere to run!” Goldenloin helpfully added, the very picture of heroic righteousness complete with hair billowing in his own wind. Even with two arms, Ballister never had that kind of iconic hero look. It must not have been difficult for the Institution to decide who to elevate, and who to kick to the curb. Goldenloin was also correct -- there was nowhere really for Ballister to go._ _

__It was hopeless, really -- the villain wasn’t supposed to win, but rather to keep coming back with new and exciting schemes for the hero to thwart. This wasn’t even a particularly interesting assault on his part. It most likely wouldn’t even be publicised._ _

__Ballister lowered his arm and stood upright, which earned him an amusing range of confused to suspicious expressions from his assailants. Goldenloin took a careful step forward, sword raised, eyebrows tight knit, and then their gazes met._ _

__The length of time they’d spent together, even disregarding their more recent relationship, meant that even the gullible Ambrosius Goldenloin had figured out how to read Ballister. In this instance, where Ballister was not even bothering to put on any kind of facade, Goldenloin had to know defeat when he saw it. After a moment he, too, lowered his sword._ _

__“Ballister Bold--” and here he stumbled over the old name, admittedly inappropriate for a villain -- “um, you. I hereby place you under arrest for the crimes of…. well, you know what you did.”_ _

__“Breaking and entering?” suggested a swarthy swordsman to the right of the righteous semicircle._ _

__“That’s pretty weak on paper,” said the sunburned axe-wielder to his left._ _

__“But a crime nonetheless!” said Goldenloin, and sighed in relief. It was comforting, in a way, to see that no one else really knew how to handle this new dynamic either. Ballister had sparred with the swordsman in training from time to time. He needed work on his control, as his swings, while heavy, could be seen coming a mile off. It would have been interesting to see if he’d worked on that at all, but it probably wasn’t good form for a villain to critique his opponents’ technique. And of course, only a few weeks ago, Ballister and Goldenloin had been sharing a bed, among other things._ _

__But that at least had turned out to be fairly irrelevant. If it didn’t stop Goldenloin, it shouldn’t stop him, either._ _

__Someone else tied his hands while Goldenloin presided, shifting from one foot to another like a nervous squire, and then Ballister was marched out of the printing press and down the dimly lit streets of the capitol. The awkward tension of such a recent change in dynamics killed any conversation that might have occurred, and Ballister lacked the comfort in his new position to be able to throw out the biting jabs he might have wanted to, otherwise. They were already in the Insitution jail before he mustered a sentence out. “You’ll want to straighten that wrist,” he said to the man with the spear at his armless side. “One good thrust and you’ll sprain it for sure.”_ _

__“Oh, right,” the man replied -- and then looked sharply up, to Ballister’s face, suspicion clear in his brow._ _

__“Curl your hand underneath the shaft,” Ballister went on without really meaning to. “You’ll have a steadier grip.”_ _

__“The Institution provides trainers enough,” said Goldenloin, “without apprehended villains assisting.”_ _

__Ballister snorted. “I know, I was one of them about a month ago.”_ _

__“Clearly you lacked the inclination to keep at it,” Goldenloin sniffed._ _

__"Do you suppose the Institution would hire a man with one arm?"_ _

__Ballister had never killed a man, but as far as conversation death went, he had murdered this one well and properly. The lesser knights all averted their eyes and shifted in place, while Goldenloin looked back at his papers under the harsh interrogation light. For some uncounted minutes the only sound in the room came from Goldenloin's ballpoint pen. And then the next sound also came from Goldenloin -- "I can't file this under Ballister Boldheart. That's no villain's name."_ _

__Of all the objections. Ballister rolled his eyes as noticeably as possible. "It's my name. Am I a villain or aren't I?"_ _

__"It will give people the wrong idea," Goldenloin insisted. "Boldness, people see as troubled but ultimately sympathetic. We went over this when -- when we picked our own names. All of us."_ _

__As if Ballister had not been present for those lectures. "Yes," he said, "I certainly remember the praises sung over 'Goldenloin.' Such nobility, they said, such style and grace!"_ _

__"It was proud and triumphant!" Goldenloin snapped, looking toward his knights for confirmation perhaps, and a few of them even stopped pretending not to witness this petty fight in order to nod sympathetically. "A hero's name! Like Boldheart! And you have proven yourself no hero."_ _

__Ballister laughed again, even more bitterly. "No hero has ever gotten lost in in printing press, of course."_ _

__"I was thinking 'Blackheart' would be a good shift. Recognisable, but distinctly sinister," Goldenloin went on, as if temporarily unable to hear._ _

__The last coals of anger flared beneath their banks of bitterness in one more violent surge. Not enough to yell or try to throw a punch with the hand tied to his useless metal arm, but enough to gather the strength for one last energetic retort. "That's rich, coming from the ex-boyfriend." If Goldenloin had been hoping to keep that under wraps, well, maybe he should have considered not attempting murder._ _

__But that turned out not to be the issue at all. “ _Ex_ -boyfriend?” Goldenloin yelped, beautiful face a picture of indignation, and under different circumstances Ballister might have wanted to laugh. “When did _that_ happen?”_ _

__“I thought you shooting my arm off was a pretty clear message,” Ballister said, unable to wipe the surliness from his voice for the proper cold, villainous sarcasm._ _

__Goldenloin blanched. It was becoming an awful game, choosing the right retorts to render him visibly uncomfortable. Sort of the nemesis version of being a tease, maybe, except without any of the fun or. It wasn't as if any kind of involvement between the two of them could ever be casual or distant yet. That, perhaps, would be the goal. "That was an accident," Goldenloin said, fairly sulky himself. Bullshit, course._ _

__“And the part where you’re arresting me right now. Fairly unambiguous, don’t you think?”_ _

__Two brilliant spots of red bloomed on Goldenloin’s cheeks as his brows knitted in perfect progression to full outrage. “I cannot and will not place my personal feelings ahead of my duty to the realm!”_ _

__A few days ago, or maybe even this morning, Ballister would’ve matched him anger for anger, maybe initiated a round two, but conflict pulled at his energy and just left him exhausted and bleak. The place where his right arm should be ached incessantly, and the man he loved -- _had_ loved, now, _had_ loved -- didn’t even have the decency to acknowledge it. Ballister sighed, looked away from the light. “I had gathered that much,” he replied. And he’d been bundled off to his cell with the bitter satisfaction of having got the last word in._ _

__Thing was, Ballister didn’t just suspect the rocket that took his arm was intentional. Goldenloin was a skilled knight, and he noticed things like rust on his armour and impending changes in the weather and when Ballister was pretending not to be in a bad mood, but everyone missed things, and they’d all misfired under less confusing situations than having been unseated in a joust. The fact that he’d been unseated said fairly clearly that he had not been at his best that morning. That wasn’t the kind of proof Ballister based his conclusions upon._ _

__He’d been tired that morning, too. Nerves, he could usually sleep through, but as he’d been going through his evening stretches he’d received a summons from the Director._ _

__“I will be blunt,” she had said when Ballister entered the dramatic lighting of her office. Long shadows lined her thin face, rendering her even more ominous in appearance than usual. “You and Goldenloin are well-matched, and either of you would be a fine Champion of the realm.”_ _

__“You honour us,” Ballister had replied automatically, but could not keep his eyes from darting to the place beside him where Ambrosius was not standing._ _

__“But you understand, Boldheart, that the position of Champion is limited to a single knight.” She had folded her hands on the table, carefully and precisely, and Ballister had thought he knew what she would say next, and only bowed his head in preparation. A Champion needed more than just the skill and dedication. Ballister simply lacked the image._ _

__“I will stand by your decision,” he said, after a moment’s pause made it clear he was expected to reply._ _

__The Director shook her head. “It is not enough to prove your skill,” she continued, “for we must know the bounds of your loyalty. No priority must come before your duty to the Institution.”_ _

__He had sworn that oath before, but it had seemed even then that the Director required something more. “There is nothing above my duty.”_ _

__“Then you will find it easy to prove,” the Director replied. “The realm needs a champion who will do what needs to be done to ensure his triumph. Who will not leave its fate up to chance. The realm needs a champion who will always win.”_ _

__And Ballister, with a growing knot in his stomach, had understood perfectly._ _

__“The realm deserves a champion who will do what’s right,” he had said, and bowed once more. “And I will stand by your decision.”_ _

__He had turned to go before the Director spoke again. “Boldheart,” she called, with an added chill to her tone. “The Institution cannot place its trust in the hands of a knight whose loyalty is in question. You will win tomorrow. You must not leave it to chance if you truly wish to champion this realm.”_ _

__Ballister had turned back once more, the last time he would see the Director’s face for a long time to come. “No,” he’d said, “I will leave it to skill.”_ _

__He hadn’t been able to sleep that night, alone in his own room, fearful for himself but even more for Ambrosius. But he hadn’t needed to bother with that, as it turned out, for he’d failed to learn the other lesson the Director was teaching him -- that loyalty, even above victory, could never be assumed, or all else _would_ be left only to chance._ _

__Now, in his cell -- one night only, since he hadn’t actually accomplished anything criminal beyond breaking and entering -- he scratched a shaky illustration of a single flower into one of the stone blocks on the floor. Should have sent a card instead of arriving in person. _To Sir Ambrosius Goldenloin, Champion of the Realm -- we regret to inform you of the termination of our Agreement, since your updated Status no longer fulfills the Needs of our Institution. Sincere Good Wishes toward your Future Endeavours -- Ballister Blackheart.__ _

__But that was probably incriminating, so he scuffed it out in the morning before the guards came back to let him out._ _


End file.
